the tree that died in Sligo

The old tree in Sligo died between a false moon projected by the ghost of Yeats and a false ghost of him created by the moon. The false phantom sits at the top of the tree in silhouette mouthing verse as it's spirit sails away, words fall from branches, they will land demanding an authentic inquiring Irish tongue. Senators seek synthetic light into their darkness as they protect a singular address from which they impress upon the public, creaking paradigms, arthritic rhymes. The spirit of a dead poet wears the night's black coat- emptying the pockets of stars-the moon resting on his tongue will never make contact with the orb in his eyes. Two Irish states are too close to dance, their is an incantation in the confluence as the day shakes out the newly born, falling into existence.